


Until You Make Me Move

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, discussion of past sexual abuse, gregs getting a suit, mycroft is very excited about it, serious conversations, slightly injured greg, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-29 23:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11451621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Greg needs a little bit of comfort after what happens to him. Mycroft does his best.





	Until You Make Me Move

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hanging by a Moment by Lifehouse.  
> I'm really not thrilled with this one at all, but I hope you guys like it, and I'm hoping the next set of updates will be better.  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any issues.

Greg bolted upright in bed, an action he immediately regretted as his ribs throbbed angrily at him. His breath came in shallow pants, and he curled his fingers into fists as he gripped the bedspread tightly. He was vaguely aware he was trembling.

Slowly, so as not to wake Mycroft, he lowered himself back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the tiny divots and imperfections highlighted by the faded grey light of early morning. His breathing gradually evened out, but his heart rate did not slow, pounding in his ears like the rolling thunder of a stampede of wild horses. It had felt so real, so vivid.

Next to him, Mycroft shifted, and Greg watched him slowly blink his eyes open. “Gregory?”

“Sorry, love,” Greg whispered back. “Did I wake you up? Go back to bed.”

Mycroft ignored that, turning onto his side and frowning at Greg, “You don’t have to be up for work today, darling.”

“I know.”

“Then why…?”

“It was just a bad dream,” Greg tried to reassure him. “Woke me up, is all.”

Mycroft’s frown deepened even as his eyes softened. “What were you dreaming about?”

Greg hesitated. He reached out and found Mycroft’s hand, resting their laced fingers on his stomach and stroking his thumb gently against Mycroft’s soft skin. The contact soothed him, and the knot in his stomach loosened a fraction. “Gregory?” Mycroft prompted.

“I was dreaming about...what happened on Friday.” Calling it what is was felt too real, too immediate. He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, not wanting to see the pity that would surely be on Mycroft’s face. Greg was beginning to understand why his boyfriend had been so hesitant to share details about his struggles with him.

Mycroft squeezed his hand gently, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Greg huffed out a laugh, “Not really.” They were both silent for a beat, and then Greg sighed, “It’s stupid. It’s really stupid.”

“What is?”

“Just...the shit that happened to me. It kind of shook me up, but I really shouldn’t be having nightmares about it. I’ve had a lot worse in my time on the force. This shouldn’t be such a big deal.” Greg clenched his jaw as flashes of the dream resurfaced. The knot in his stomach tightened again.

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Why aren’t you allowed to be upset over this just because worse things have happened to you? It was still atrocious, and that fact does not change just because it is not the _most_ atrocious thing you’ve experienced.”

“Because,” Greg huffed, trying to find the words to explain it. “Because I should be above it, you know? It shouldn’t bother me to get roughed up a bit when I’ve actually been tortured by psychotic criminals before.”

Greg could feel the jolt of horror shudder through Mycroft’s body where they were pressed against each other. “First of all,” Mycroft said, very quietly, “there are many different kinds of torture. Just because a certain type seems worse does not negate the fact that the lesser one is still, at its core, torture. Secondly. Gregory.” He sounded like he was struggling for words, a rare thing for Mycroft, and Greg was almost tempted to look at him. He didn’t.

Finally Mycroft said, “David raped me.”

Greg startled. He was pretty sure Mycroft had never said that out loud before, and it was enough to make him give in to the need to turn and look at his boyfriend. Mycroft’s expression was pained but determined. He continued, “He forced himself on me against my will, and it hurt. There were other instances, after the first time it happened, where he molested me to a lesser degree, and I was grateful. Why should I complain about that when I knew it could have been so much worse?”

“Mycroft…”

“I know now that that is illogical thinking. It does not matter that it could have been worse. It was still bad, and wrong, and should not have happened. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Greg nodded. Mycroft let go of his hand to stroke his fingers through Greg’s hair, and Greg leaned into the touch. “I cannot stop you from thinking like that,” Mycroft murmured. “We have learned from experience that combating the emotional with the logical does not always work. But I can tell you that what happened to you was horrible, that you do not need to compare it to anything for it to be so, and that I am here for you if you need me.”

“I love you,” Greg’s voice was shaky as he said it, but he needed to get it out. If nothing else, coming so close to dying had shown him that he didn’t know how long he had left with Mycroft. They both led dangerous lives, and Greg couldn’t allow them to be separated without letting Mycroft know, as often as possible, how very much he meant to Greg.

Even without voicing all that, Mycroft seemed to understand. His smile was soft when he responded, “I love you too. Go back to sleep, my darling.”

“And if I have another nightmare?”

“Then I will be here when you wake up to reassure you that it was just a dream. I am here, Gregory. Let me be here for you.”

“Okay,” Greg whispered. He turned into Mycroft, and let his boyfriend wrap him up tightly in his arms. “Okay,” he repeated. Gradually, listening to Mycroft’s steady heartbeat, he fell back asleep.

When he woke again, things looked considerably brighter. For one thing, it was after ten, and sunlight streamed cheerfully in through the windows, forcing Greg to squint as his eyes adjusted. For another, the nightmare had not returned. Mycroft was awake, leaning back against the headboard with a book in his lap. It took Greg a moment to realize that the weird squiggles adorning the pages weren’t his eyes playing tricks on him; Mycroft was reading in Russian again.

When Mycroft noticed Greg was awake, he closed his book, placing his finger between the pages to mark where he left off. “Did you sleep well?”

“Better the second time around.”

“Good,” Mycroft smiled. “I was thinking about making breakfast for you for a change.”

Greg pulled himself slowly into a sitting position. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Nonsense. You’re injured-”

“It’s a bruised rib, and it’s not even bruised that badly.”

Mycroft spoke over him like he hadn’t heard Greg, “-and it’s only fair, given how often you cook for me.”

“Well, that I can’t really argue with.” Greg leaned over and pecked Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft turned his head and pulled Greg into a deeper kiss. “Good morning to you too,” Greg murmured when they parted.

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched up, but he kept his expression fairly neutral as he set his book on the nightstand and asked, “Did you have an idea of what you might like for breakfast, or should I surprise you?”

“Surprise me,” Greg responded instantly.

Mycroft nodded and stood up. Greg scooted to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the side and pulled Mycroft down by the collar of his pajama shirt for another lingering kiss. “I’ll be down in a minute,” he said softly as he released his boyfriend.

Mycroft slipped downstairs, and Greg gradually made it to his feet. He wandered over to the mirror and winced at his reflection. His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, and there were clear bags under his eyes, not to mention the patches of purple and brownish-yellow where his bruises were beginning to fade. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, a motion that only pushed it farther into disarray. He gave it up as a lost cause and headed downstairs.

Greg couldn’t help but smile when he hit the landing, recognizing the soft notes drifting out from the kitchen, and he paused in the doorway to watch Mycroft work. His boyfriend was humming along to the chorus of one of Greg’s favourite songs by Asia as he cracked eggs into a glass bowl.

“I thought my taste in music was, and I quote, ‘deplorable,’” Greg grinned.

Mycroft tossed a look over his shoulder and said haughtily, “It’s growing on me.”

Greg sidled up behind him and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist. He pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft’s pulse point and whispered the next line of the song into his skin.

“I’m still unsure if I understand that line,” Mycroft murmured. “It makes very little sense.”

“It’s poetry, love,” Greg said. “It’s...I dunno, symbolism or whatever. Doesn’t have to make sense. It means whatever you think it means.”

“And what do you think it means?”

Greg considered it for a moment, and then said, “Probably something along the lines of wising up and facing your fears.”

Mycroft cocked his head, “Why do you say that?”

“There’s a thing about pearls of wisdom my mum used to say, and riding the dragon...I guess it just sounds like facing your fears to me.” He grinned and nipped gently at Mycroft’s neck where he had kissed him, “Of course, it could just be about drugs.”

That drew a laugh out of Mycroft, “I would not be surprised.” He unwound Greg’s arms from his waist, “Now shoo. I’m trying to cook, and I can’t focus with you distracting me.”

A series of thundering knocks at the door made both of them pause, and Mycroft frowned. “We’re not expecting company, are we?” Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “Anthea would call ahead,” he said, “and I can’t imagine anyone else I know making a house call on me. Unless…”

Greg reached the same conclusion a moment behind Mycroft. He sighed, “I’ll get it. You keep cooking.” He headed in the direction of the door. The knocking rang out again, more insistent this time, and Greg called irritably, “Yes, yes, I’m coming. Christ.” He yanked open the door, as expected, to Sherlock.

“You know I’m off this week,” Greg chastised him before the consulting detective could get a word out. “If you’ve got something related to a case, go bother one of the detectives actually on duty.”

Sherlock sniffed, clearly eyeing Greg’s pajamas, but he didn’t comment on them. “Is it so hard to believe I could come pay you a social call?”

Greg just stared at him, his eyebrows raised.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, dropping the pretence altogether. “I’ve nearly cracked the one you put me on last week, but Hopkins won’t let me follow up on one of the leads.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?”

“Since Hopkins has the witness in police custody as a safety precaution, and no one will let me question her.”

Greg sighed, “I’m sure DI Hopkins has a reason for it.” When Sherlock just continued to look at him expectantly, he asked, “What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Make her let me in.”

“I can’t do that, Sherlock.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m on forced leave this week, for one thing,” Greg said. “And because I trust her judgement. She’s the same rank as me, I can’t exactly order her around, and even if I could, I wouldn’t. She’s not stupid, whatever you might think, and if she trusts you enough to let you in on cases then she must have a reason to keep you away from a witness.” Privately, Greg could think of plenty of reasons to keep Sherlock away from a witness. He’d traumatized plenty of people in Greg’s presence over the ten plus years they’d worked together, witnesses included.

Sherlock pulled out his pout, looking like a petulant child. “Lestrade-”

“No,” Greg said firmly. “If I have to be out this week, I’ve got better things to do than play mediator between you and Scotland Yard.”

“Like what?”

“Like shagging your brother,” Greg snapped, mostly out of annoyance and the desire to make Sherlock leave as soon as possible. It worked. Sherlock’s face screwed up and he took a step backwards. “I’ll be back in a few days,” Greg said. “Until then, go bother someone else.”

Sherlock shot him a dirty look, but he turned on his heel and flounced back down the driveway. Greg groaned, thunking his head against the wooden doorframe. Dealing with Sherlock could be a pain on a good day, and Greg really wasn’t up for it at the moment. He shut the door and padded back down the hall to the kitchen.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow when he entered. “I assumed you would be more subtle about trying to get me into bed with you at some point this week, but I suppose being blunt saves time. Although we will have to be careful; you’re not supposed to be doing anything strenuous for the time being, and I believe sex is usually counted among strenuous activities.”

Greg dropped into one of the chairs at the island, “You heard that?”

“We shall have to remember that tactic for sending Sherlock away in the future.” There was more amusement in Mycroft’s voice than anything else.

“Honestly, I’m surprised it works,” Greg admitted. “Knowing Sherlock, I half expected him to do his scientist thing, asking for reports on, I don’t know, who does what how often or whatever.”

“Scientific curiosity only goes so far with Sherlock,” Mycroft said wisely. “No one wants to hear about their sibling’s sex life.”

“Nice to know _some_ boundaries exist. I swear, even without dating you, it’s like having an annoying little brother. Always asking for favours, whining when he doesn’t get his way. I know he’s only ten years younger than me, but it really feels like I’m working with a kid sometimes.”

“I think Sherlock was too sheltered as a child,” Mycroft said. “That was partially my fault, of course. After Eurus, we all allowed Sherlock to do what he pleased. I believe Mummy and Father were trying to give Sherlock all the childhood that Eurus would never have, and it rather backfired. Sherlock is accustomed to his needs being put before all others. It’s a wonder he ever learned compassion at all.”

Greg sighed. “I know Sherlock really isn’t as bad as we make him out to be sometimes. He’s just like you, is all. Hides a lot of it so he doesn’t get hurt.”

“A fair assessment,” Mycroft agreed, “although I would disagree that it excuses the behaviour.” He flipped the last piece of French toast out of the pan and plated it, “Do you want syrup or powdered sugar, darling?”

“Both,” Greg grinned, standing up to help. Mycroft pulled a face and made a muttered comment about hedonism, but Greg nudged him and said, “You’re one to talk.”

Mycroft picked up his plate of French toast, gently drizzled with just a hint of syrup, “Oh really?”

“Love, you have the fluffiest towels I’ve ever seen, and they’re monogramed. Half the fabric in this house is silk. Don’t get me wrong, I’m far from complaining, but if you can have that stuff, let me eat my deliciously sweet French toast in peace.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes but didn’t respond. And he let Greg lock their ankles together under the table, so Greg knew he wasn’t mad.

Partway through breakfast, Mycroft said, “Assuming you’re amenable, I’d like to bring you in to see my tailor today. We need to get you measured as soon as possible if we want your suit to be done by next week.”

“Right.” Greg vaguely remembered Mycroft had said something the week before about getting him fitted for a suit, but he had been a little distracted at the time, so he hadn’t really been thinking about what that meant.

Mycroft frowned, “Is something the matter?”

“It’s just...you’re getting me fitted for a suit. At your tailor’s.”

“Yes. You seemed to like the idea last week.” Mycroft paused, and then understanding dawned on his face, “This is about money again, isn’t it?”

“You’re the genius, you tell me.” Greg hadn’t meant it to come off so sulky, and he bit his lip.

“Being a genius does not make me infallible,” Mycroft reminded him gently. A shadow flickered across his face, but before Greg could ask, it was gone again. “I thought we discussed this. We both contribute to the finances. For all that we may joke about it, I am not trying to keep you here as some sort of trophy to be purchased and shown off. You are my partner. I have money, so I see no issue with spending it on you. It is not a sign of my superiority, but rather a way to ensure that you can be happy and comfortable in our home.”

“I don’t need you to buy me things to be happy with you.”

“I know,” Mycroft said. “But I enjoy doing it anyway. And really, I don’t spend nearly as much on you as I could. I know my wealth sometimes makes you uncomfortable, and I am trying, Gregory. But I would like it if occasionally I could buy you things without it upsetting you.”

“I know,” Greg sighed. “And I’m trying too. It just still feels like charity sometimes, you know? Like you’re only doing it because you feel like I’m beneath you.”

Mycroft looked offended for a moment, before the expression was replaced with a softer one. “You are far from beneath me, Gregory,” he said. “You are a better man than I could ever hope to be, and that means far more to me than social class ever could. I don’t know if these are common thoughts for you, or if they are being prompted by something from last week, but please know that I would never think you lesser than me. You are my partner, my equal.”

Greg fidgeted with his silverware, feeling stupid. “I know. I know. The guys who...took me just said some things that made me doubt it. I’m sorry.”

Mycroft nodded and his voice went a bit cold, “Those men are poor excuses for human beings, Gregory, and they have been dealt with.” Then he shook himself, and his tone was more casual when he said, “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Greg offered him a smile, and Mycroft returned it. He cleared his throat, “And I assure you, Gregory, me buying you a suit has absolutely nothing to do with charity.” He licked his lips and his eyes darkened, and a shiver went down Greg’s spine at the predatory gaze.

“When exactly did you plan on us going to see your tailor?” Greg was surprised at how even his voice was, although it was a bit thicker than usual. He had half expected it to crack.

Mycroft kept his expression neutral, “This afternoon would be best, perhaps a bit later.”

“Any meetings, work things to do in the meantime?”

“A few, but they are not of immediate concern. And I can be very efficient at catching up if other, more _pressing_ matters were to arise.” Mycroft’s careful neutrality broke, and his lips curled into a smirk. “Why?”

“I’m sure a so-called genius doesn’t need me to spell it out for him, but if he wants to tease then I can go upstairs and take care of _pressing matters_ by myself.”

Mycroft stood up smoothly, “Well, I would hate to make a liar of you, and you did tell Sherlock-”

Greg surged forward and crashed their lips together, Mycroft’s arms coming up to clutch at his shoulders and drag him closer. When they broke apart, panting, Greg growled, “ _Never_ bring up your brother when we’re about to have sex. Unless you’re _trying_ to kill the mood.”

Where Mycroft normally might have made a witty quip, he only murmured, “Duly noted,” and pulled Greg back against him, reclaiming his lips.

***

“Mr. Holmes! It’s lovely to see you again.”

Mycroft smiled warmly, “Bridgmont, I’d like to introduce you to my boyfriend, Gregory Lestrade. Gregory, this is Bridgmont, my tailor. He has been very good to me, and he comes highly recommended.”

Gregory’s smile was shyer, uncertain. “Hello,” he said, offering his hand out. Bridgmont shook it.

“It’s been a long time since Mr. Holmes brought anyone new to see me,” he said. “Not since that girl, what was her name? Andrea?”

“Anthea,” Mycroft corrected.

“Exactly,” Bridgmont nodded. “And that was years ago. You must be something very special, Mr. Lestrade.”

“He is,” Mycroft said before Gregory could respond. “I’m bringing him as my plus one to the Hart Foundation Charity Ball next week. I know it’s a bit last minute, but I was hoping you could work your magic for me.”

“Anything for Mycroft Holmes,” Bridgmont said. “Why don’t we get him measured, and you can tell me what you were thinking.” He gestured Gregory into fitting room one, and Gregory glanced over his shoulder at Mycroft, who nodded encouragingly and followed.

“I am aware the Harts generally prefer the traditional black,” Mycroft said as Bridgmont set to work, “but given recent events I am hoping the rigidity of that preference will be more relaxed.”

Bridgmont nodded knowingly, “Mr. Hart does enjoy a touch of the dramatic, and I’m sure he will not take issue if you wanted to go with a different colour, assuming it was still tasteful.”

“I was thinking midnight blue.”

“An excellent choice!” Bridgmont agreed. Gregory shifted uncomfortably as the tailor’s hands coaxed him to move. “Yes, blue would suit him very nicely.”

“I’m still here,” Gregory said, throwing a pointed look Mycroft’s way. “Do I get a say?”

“I believe your exact words were ‘I’ll do whatever you want,’” Mycroft responded. “And quite frankly, my darling, I don’t trust you to make decisions regarding formal attire. When was the last time you wore a properly fitted suit?”

“My wedding,” Gregory admitted.

“Precisely,” Mycroft said. “I love you, but best leave this to those more knowledgeable. Besides,” he caught Gregory’s eye in the mirror, “I am _very much_ looking forward to seeing you in clothing that actually...fits.” The carefully emphasized word was enough to make Gregory blush and shift his gaze towards Bridgmont, who was crouched around his ankles with the measuring tape.

“You’re really flirting with me now, of all times?” he asked.

“Trust me, sir, I’ve heard far worse,” Bridgmont said. “Not that I’m one to gossip.”

“He’s lying, of course,” Mycroft said. “Bridgmont knows a great deal more than he lets on. He can be trusted with a state secret, but a little petty gossip is very effective in misdirection, isn’t it Bridgmont?”

Bridgmont smiled pleasantly at him in the mirror, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Holmes. I merely meant to say that Mr. Hart’s personal business is not mine to share.”

“You see, Gregory?” Mycroft leaned casually against the hideously green wall. “Misdirection.”

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I believe that was the door. I’ll be back in a moment.” Bridgmont slipped out of the fitting room.

Gregory turned to Mycroft, “Do you have any friends not involved in your work?”

“I’m not sure I’d call Bridgmont a friend,” Mycroft said, “but you can hardly expect a man who clothes half of England’s most influential people to not pick up at least of a few of their secrets.”

“Right,” Gregory rolled his eyes. “So, what, your tailor’s a spy, your hairdresser’s an assassin, and your chauffeur’s a fence? Something like that?”

“Why do you assume I have a hairdresser?”

Gregory raised his eyebrows, “Maybe because I know you? And also because I’ve seen your calendar.”

“I don’t have a single chauffeur, you know. I use an agency.”

“Mycroft, love, I’m teasing you,” Gregory said. “I get it; your personal life and your work life are little tied together. There are things you can’t tell me about. Misdirection, right?”

“I don’t enjoy keeping things from you, Gregory.”

“I never said you did,” Gregory responded. He took a step towards Mycroft, and laced their fingers together. Mycroft looked up. “Now stop looking so sad before I have to kiss that frown off your face.”

“I’m not sure that is proper incentive.” Mycroft felt his lips twitch into a smile anyway. Gregory grinned and kissed him.

“Ah-hem.” Bridgmont cleared his throat, and Gregory jumped back from Mycroft as if he’d been burned. Considering Gregory was normally the one to be more demonstrative in public, Mycroft was rather enjoying embarrassing him a bit. “If you’re ready for me to finish your measurements, we can proceed.”

“Sure, yeah,” Gregory nodded, a flush still visible on his cheeks.

Bridgmont gave Mycroft an amused look, “He’s an agreeable one. Wherever did you scoop him up?”

“Scotland Yard,” Mycroft responded. “Although I do believe he was the one who sought me out, not the other way around. It was very good that he did, or I might have been pining after him for the rest of our lives.”

“Scotland Yard?” Bridgmont asked.

“I’m a Detective Inspector there,” Gregory told him. “Mycroft’s brother works with me sometimes. That’s how we met.”

“Ah, Sherlock,” Bridgmont nodded. “Mr. Holmes has told me a great deal about his troublesome little brother. Interesting that you work for the police, given Mr. Holmes’s position in the government.”

“A minor position,” Gregory said, glancing at Mycroft, who was rather amused to hear his boyfriend parroting back the standard line Mycroft gave to anyone who did not have the clearance to know what he actually did.

“Of course,” Bridgmont said, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth again. He marked down the last measurement and rolled up the tape measure. “I will contact your assistant when it is finished, Mr. Holmes. It shouldn’t take much more than a week, and then we can bring the Detective Inspector here in for a final fitting before the big event.”

“Thank you, Bridgmont,” Mycroft said. “Ready to leave, Gregory?”

Gregory nodded, and Mycroft led him out of the shop, nodding politely at a young man with blond hair sitting patiently on the couch with an umbrella resting on his lap.

When they were securely behind the soundproof doors of the car, Gregory asked, “So does he actually know what you do?”

“I’ve never told him, but I suspect he knows more than he lets on. Kingsman Tailor is most likely a front for something, although what precisely that is even I am unsure of.” He knew a bit more than that in actuality, but there was only so much he was actually allowed to reveal. The fiasco from a few years ago had been very illuminating in many ways.

Fortunately, Gregory did not question him further in that regard, “And Mr...Hart, I think his name was? Who’s he? Old friend?”

“Hardly. He’s barely an acquaintance. In truth, Harry Hart is a bit of a mystery, even to me. He is six years my elder and we share a similar upbringing, although his family disowned him nearly thirty years ago when he came out as gay. He stayed out of the spotlight a great deal after that, so I don’t know much about what he was doing, but he got married last year and I suppose they must have written him back into the will, because he’s officially hosting the family’s annual charity ball this year.” Mycroft shrugged, “At any rate, I don’t think he’s of much importance, beyond perhaps having some family connections that could prove useful. But I won’t talk about work any longer today, I’m sure you’re sick of it.”

“Little bit,” Gregory admitted. “Did you have something else planned for today, or are we going home?”

“I thought we might go out for dinner,” Mycroft offered. “Considering our last attempt was...unfortunately circumvented, I thought you might like to try again.”

“Would Anthea and Stella be there?”

“I hadn’t planned on it, but I can certainly invite them if you would like.”

Gregory considered, and then shook his head. “Some other time, maybe. Did you have a place in mind?”

“I did, in fact. It’s a little place downtown. You’ve been there before.”

“Really? When?”

“It was the first place where we met to...discuss my brother.”

Gregory laughed, “I remember. They had that incredible oyster thing.” He smirked and lowered his voice like he was revealing a secret, “I’m going to be honest, I picked the most expensive thing on the menu just to see what you’d do.”

“Is that what you were doing?” Mycroft asked mildly, hiding his own smirk. “I assumed you were trying to look cultured.”

“Some genius you are,” Gregory snorted to hide his amusement and scooted closer, sliding into the middle seat so they could lean against each other. “So you’re taking me back to the place where we had our first meeting about Sherlock. Hell of a spot for a date.”

“Considering there was apparently a desire on both our parts for some of those meetings to actually be dates, I thought perhaps we could revisit them now that we are a couple.”

“Love, you do realize working through all those places would probably take another ten years, right?”

Mycroft smiled affectionately at his boyfriend. “I cannot think of a more enjoyable way to spend the next ten years, my darling.”

Gregory grinned back, “I can.” His fingers curled around the back of Mycroft’s neck, and he pulled him into a gentle but passionate kiss.

When they broke apart, both grinning like fools, Mycroft nodded in agreement. “Very persuasive, Detective Inspector, although I may need more convincing to fully appreciate your point.” He threaded his fingers through Gregory’s hair and brought their lips together again.

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, depending on how one looked at it) the car rolled to a stop, and Mycroft glanced out the window regretfully to see that they’d arrived. He gently pushed Gregory away, and his boyfriend got the message and sat back. Mycroft smoothed down the front of his suit and opened the car door. Gregory followed him out, trying to get his hair to lie flat again after Mycroft had mussed it up. He failed spectacularly, and Mycroft hid his satisfied smile.

Mycroft had not made a reservation, but that didn’t matter, as they were seated towards the back of the restaurant almost the moment they walked in the door. His job did, occasionally, have its perks.

Gregory glanced over his shoulder at the moderately crowded restaurant, and then turned back to Mycroft. “It looks just like I remember it.” He grinned, “It feels almost like I’m forty-three again, totally out of my element and wondering if you’re actually a criminal mastermind I’ve been duped into helping.”

Mycroft huffed, “I don’t know where people get the idea that I’m a criminal mastermind.”

“Well, kidnapping people and interrogating them in warehouses isn’t helping.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at his boyfriend, but Gregory’s face was open and teasing. “Perhaps you are correct,” he admitted slowly, “but it is a very effective intimidation technique. In fact, it has only failed me twice.”

“Trust me, love, you don’t need to kidnap someone to come across as intimidating,” Gregory said, and his expression shifted for a microsecond, just long enough for Mycroft to notice the change but gone too quickly for him to analyse is. “Who didn’t it work on? Anyone I know? Other than me, I mean.” He paused, “You are including me in that, right?”

Mycroft chuckled, “Yes, I am including you. I was rather taken aback by how irritated you were. Most people are too frightened to challenge me like that. The other exception was, of course, John Watson.”

“John,” Gregory nodded. “Should have guessed.” He fell silent, toying with his napkin.

Mycroft hesitated, and then asked softly, “Do I frighten you, Gregory? Still?”

The expression returned to Gregory’s face, not just a flicker but a full twist of the lips and a peculiar look in his eye that Mycroft wasn’t sure he liked at all. “Look,” Gregory said. “It’s not that you scare me. I mean, you do. A bit. But it’s not really like that.” He sighed, “I’m not saying this right.”

“Take your time.”

“It’s like this,” Gregory paused as someone stopped by the fill their water glasses. He took a swig from his and when the staff member disappeared he continued, “I’ve seen you try and act all scary, basically intimidating people into doing what you want, and I kind of laughed at it because I knew you better than that, or at least I thought I did. Because you’re not like that all the time. You let your guard down around me, even back before we were dating you did it a lot, so I didn’t really buy into the whole Iceman act. I knew you were powerful, probably a bit dangerous, but it never really occurred to me it was _a thing_ , you know? Especially after we started dating, because then I really saw all the stuff you don’t let anyone else see, all the broken bits you’ve been trying to keep together for so long.”

Mycroft had fought not to react to any of Gregory’s words, even as each consecutive one massed in his stomach like a great black serpent, waiting to deal the killing blow. He didn’t manage it as well as he would have hoped at the last statement, because Gregory reached across the table to take his hand and squeeze it. “Hey. We talked about this. You’re working on it, and that’s what matters, right?”

Mycroft nodded, unable to speak or swallow around the lump in his throat, and Gregory let go of his hand and continued, “It was...I don’t know, a false sense of security, I guess. I’ve had this image of you as someone who needed to be protected, and when I saw you walk into the warehouse it sort of...shattered that image. And it scared me a little. Because I’d only really known that you could...be like that in a sort of abstract way, and to see it up close like that was kind of terrifying. So now I look at you, and most of the time it’s fine, but sometimes it kind of hits me that you can actually be, well, terrifying. It’s not...it’s not really that I’m scared of you. It’s more like I know that, under different circumstances, I should be, and I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it.”

“I see.” Mycroft drummed his fingers on his thigh, hidden under the table. He pressed his back flat against the chair, glad he was in a corner, and scanned the room briefly to avoid looking at Gregory’s face. Eventually, he said, “I abhor violence, Gregory. I’ve said as much. But when it came to you, I simply had to be there. It typically bothers me to use a gun, but I found myself... _wanting_ to do so. What is normally an act...wasn’t.  I believe I frightened myself as much as I frightened you, because that is not who I am.”

“You said you never wanted me to see you like that.”

“I didn’t want you to believe the act. Worse still is that the one time you witnessed it, it was not an act at all.”

“You know I love you, right?”

When Mycroft didn’t respond, Gregory reached out and took his hand again. The one on Mycroft’s thigh stopped drumming abruptly, fingers frozen in the action. “Look at me,” Gregory said softly. When Mycroft obeyed, Gregory murmured, “I understand why you wouldn’t want me to see that, and I definitely understand why it scared you, because I’ve been there. I’ve been the one holding the gun and surprised myself because I wanted to shoot the other person. But wanting that one time doesn’t change who you are. I was in danger. You wanted to protect me. So even if it scared me, it doesn’t change how I feel about you, understand? I don’t want you worrying about it.”

Mycroft pulled his hand away. “You’ve just been through a trauma. I should be the one comforting you, not the other way around,” he said bitterly.

“Yeah, well, old habits,” Gregory said. “Mycroft. Love. Yes, this is something I’m going to have to get used to, but I don’t want you pulling away from me right now. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

Mycroft bit his lip, fingers resuming their rhythmic drumming. Finally, he said, “I can try.”

Gregory gave him a tiny smile, “Thank you.” Under the table, Mycroft felt Gregory’s foot nudge gently against his, and he gave in and allowed Gregory to lock their ankles together. He didn’t look up at his boyfriend, but studied the menu. Eventually, it shifted from an avoidance technique to him actually looking it over, and his stomach turned unpleasantly.

He laid the menu back on the table and said softly, “Perhaps this was a bad idea.”

“You suggested going out,” Gregory pointed out.

“That was before…”

“Before I upset you,” Gregory sighed.

Guilt twisted into the mess that was Mycroft’s stomach. He kept his gaze fixed on the table, unsure what to say.

A waiter stepped up to the table, “Can I start you gentlemen off with something to drink?”

“Actually, we’re going to need a minute,” Gregory said. The waiter nodded and backed away, and Gregory returned his attention to Mycroft, “Are you okay, or do you want to leave?”

Mycroft weighed the options. “I think I’ll manage,” he said quietly. He studied the menu again, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood. “I could always just get a salad.”

“Up until just now, you were having a good day,” Gregory said. “I’m not going to make you eat if you don’t want to, but I’d like it if you had more than just a salad.” His voice was careful, and Mycroft recognized the tone with relief. It felt like a cop-out sometimes, but often it was easier to bargain with Gregory than to make the decision alone. It did not entirely remove his choice, and it meant he would end up eating _something_ , rather than not eat at all because he was too frightened to decide on his own.

“The entrees all look…” Mycroft trailed off. Terrifying was the most accurate word, but he didn’t want to say as much.

Gregory understood anyway. “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll make you a deal. You can get a salad if it’s not just one of the leafy ones; get one with chicken in it or something. And you’re splitting dessert with me.”

That sounded manageable, so Mycroft nodded. A few minutes later, the waiter returned, and they ordered. Gregory followed Mycroft’s lead on limiting their drinks to water, and when they were alone again, Mycroft said, “You could order a beer if you wanted.”

“I know.”

“How long, exactly, do you intend to abstain from alcohol in my presence?”

Gregory frowned in confusion, “Does it really matter?”

Mycroft fought the urge to blush, “No, I suppose it doesn’t.” When Gregory still looked confused, Mycroft said, “It just struck me as odd, that’s all.”

“Honestly, at this point it’s more habit than anything else,” Gregory admitted. “Good one, too. I probably drank a little too much before.”

“So it’s not to do with me?”

“Not everything is to do with you, love,” Gregory said. He grinned, “Although actually, this does, or it did. But I’ll keep in mind that it doesn’t bother you. For next time.”

Privately, Mycroft thought that he might rather be looking forward to next time. He wondered if Gregory really was as amorous as he implied when tipsy, and was surprisingly eager to find out.

Conversation tapered off when plates were set in front of them, and Mycroft pressed his foot more tightly against Gregory’s under the table, focusing on the contact instead of the food. He picked around the chicken at first, until Gregory distracted him with another tirade about his mother’s phone call, and he was drawn into the conversation enough to more or less forget about what he was putting in his stomach. When the plates were clear, Gregory smiled at Mycroft, “You good?”

“I am alright,” Mycroft responded, which was the truth. However, he wasn’t so certain about how he would handle following dinner up with something sweet and probably outrageously unhealthy, and cautiously asked, “Do I have to have dessert?”

“I said you would share with me,” Gregory said kindly, clearly picking up on the hesitance in Mycroft’s voice. “That means at least one bite.”

“Alright,” Mycroft said. “I can do that.”

Dessert was a decadent chocolate cake, and Mycroft managed three bites before he set down his fork. When the bill was placed on the table between them, Mycroft reached for it automatically, and then thought for a moment and withdrew his hand. He glanced up at his boyfriend, who understood the gesture. Gregory plucked the bill off the table and paid it, a small smile of thanks gracing his lips.

On the ride home, Mycroft tucked himself against Gregory’s side in the car. “I’m proud of you,” Gregory said softly.

“Baby steps,” Mycroft murmured. In reality, it felt a lot larger than a baby step, as it had been a long time since he had actually eaten in a restaurant, and to accomplish such a feat with only minor difficulty felt massive.

“Next time, why don’t we make it a double date?” Gregory suggested. “I still want to meet Stella, and it might be easier for you if both Anthea and I are there. More support, you know.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said. “So long as it does not turn out like our last attempt at double dating.”

Gregory’s face fell, and he swallowed hard. Mycroft tentatively found his hand and squeezed it, unused to initiating the contact but suspecting Gregory probably needed it. “I will do better next time,” he said quietly.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was,” Mycroft said. There was no feeling of guilt, just certainty and a need to acknowledge the mistake so he would not make it in the future. “It was mine and Anthea’s and everyone else who missed such obvious signs. I was so used to things being complicated that I overlooked what was right in front of me. That is the folly of genius; sometimes you don’t see the simple answer.” He gripped Gregory’s hand a little harder, “I will not make that mistake again.”

“You won’t always be able to keep me safe, Mycroft.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed, “but that does not mean I am not going to do everything in my power to try.”

Gregory returned the squeeze. “Let’s just go home, okay? I’ve got a few more days off, and I think the couch and some crap films are calling our names.”

“Sounds perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> I will not apologize for the Kingsman references. June will probably be a multi-chapter work again, and there are definitely some moments I'm looking forward to. And hey, we're over 150K! Thanks for staying this long! I love you guys so much.


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